


And Never Go To Sleep

by severinne



Series: And Never Go To Sleep [1]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mindfuck, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-08
Updated: 2008-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severinne/pseuds/severinne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conversation and circumstance cause Gene to wonder whether Sam Tyler actually exists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bistokids](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bistokids).



> Written for the following Ficathon 2008 prompt: “Gene/Nelson (but not necessarily slash), in the pub, discussing Sam.”

‘Prove it,’ he had said, short and to the point and it did the job, Tyler rushing out the door in a flurry of long legs and leather, leaving Gene reeling still, blood racing, set somehow alight. _Prove it_ , he had challenged, just as Tyler was challenging him at every bloody turn since he arrived yesterday, pushing back like no other man under him had dared to before.

Sam Tyler was intoxicating. Warmed him through, gave him the spins, and made him want to heave up in the yard out back, all three at once.

Huffing impatiently at himself, Gene turned back to the bar, easily suppressing any inklings of going back to the station to coax the lads into chasing up new leads or else to simply watch this boy from Hyde in action. Between duty and temptation, another pint seemed the safest choice. He considered just drinking Tyler’s abandoned bitter, but it seemed to have vanished so he waved down Nelson instead. ‘Same as before.’

Nelson’s wide mouth quirked as he collected Gene’s empty glass. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, mon brave.’ He began to pour, and must have caught the confusion on Gene’s face, leaning in past the tap and lowering his voice. ‘Nothing gonna be the same as before with that one around, don’t you think?’

‘Hard to say, innit?’ Gene sniffed, glanced back at the door, the ghost of Tyler’s exit still replaying in his mind.

‘He’s not like the others, this new DI of yours.’

Gene nodded, accepted his pint. ‘He’ll learn. Soon enough.’ This was one of the things he liked about Nelson: he was a sharp enough bloke to read people and situations, to know without being told that Tyler was the new DI on his team.

‘Maybe.’ Nelson said it slow, his voice honeyed with humour. ‘What may be, may be.’ Nodding and smiling, more to himself than to Gene, he set about mopping up the innumerable spills of beer staining the bar top. Gene watched him disinterestedly, sipping his pint, caught slightly off-guard when Nelson looked up again, dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

‘I wonder, Mr. Hunt… what part of your subconscious _he_ hail from?’

  


* * *

  


‘Hyde.’ Gene spat out the name like a bad bit of curry. ‘Who the hell would want to go back to sodding poncy-arsed _Hyde_?’

‘Inspector Tyler isn’t with you tonight, then?’

‘Of course he bloody isn’t.’ Gene hoisted the last two pints of the present round, passed them along to Ray. ‘He doesn’t play cards. Doesn’t play darts. S’like he doesn’t want to be here at all.’

‘Where is he now? D’you know?’

‘Don’t see why I should give a toss. Not one hour ago, the daft git’s in my office, asking if I can send him back to _Hyde_.’

‘And why didn’t you?’

Gene opened his mouth to reply, then paused. The right kind of answers lingered at the tip of his tongue – the paperwork required for the transfer would be a right pain in the arse, and Gene would be damned before he would bend to the lad’s pitiful whinging, just because he had been stupid enough to poke the proverbial hornet’s nest and couldn’t understand why the nasty buggers came rallying up for a sting or several.

Which led, all too conveniently, to the reason that remained stuck further down in Gene’s throat, half-formed around images and impressions too quick to measure in the hasty business of Kim Trent’s arrest. The single strongest memory he could conjure returned time and again to that swell of relief so great it was nearly joy on seeing Tyler, leaning against a water pipe as though it were the only thing holding him up but unharmed enough to smile bravely, gratefully with all that dangerously disarming charm that stirred things in Gene, memories of boys long since sacrificed at the altar of a safe marriage…

At the edge of his awareness, Gene heard Nelson clear his throat in the awkward silence. He gave his head a firm shake, and looked back towards the table, where his men were waiting. ‘Paperwork,’ he mumbled. Nelson’s brow furrowed in confusion, his mouth turning down into a baffled frown.

‘Not sure I follow your drift, brother.’

‘Neither do I, Nelson.’ Bitterly resigned, Gene returned to his seat, rested his cigarette in the ashtray, and gathered up the discarded hands for his deal. The ritual movements of the game looked sluggish to his eyes, and he watched his fingers shuffle the cards – that was all, not like he was sulking – and was just about to snap at Chris to stop that fidgeting already, he was gonna deal soon enough, when Nelson’s voice chimed the smoky air.

‘Hey, pilgrim.’

Gene glanced up. Tyler was braced against the bar with both hands, looking pale and worn. ‘Give me a Scotch,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t fancy going out there tonight.’

Nelson served up Tyler’s drink with his usual share of chatter, soft words that Gene couldn’t be bothered to heed given the greater effort of watching his DI without appearing to watch too closely, holding the shuffle in stasis while he waited for Tyler to do something other than stare into his scotch like he was trying to reckon out the best way to drown himself in such a small measure of liquid. But even Ray was letting off the odd impatient sigh, and Gene realized he would have to take the initiative. ‘You in, Tyler? Fifty p gets you a chair.’

And he didn’t miss the way Tyler first looked to Nelson, the odd glance for permission, but what mattered was that Tyler was walking over, was rummaging in his snug trousers pocket for coins, and that the look on his face was already less weary and lost.

Ray stood up from the table, knocked Tyler’s arm on his way to the bogs – not especially hard, but painfully deliberate – and Gene felt a flash of anger at his sergeant and old friend until Tyler sat in his place and suddenly the heat had gone. Or changed. He really wasn’t sure it had happened at all.

‘Sure you’re in?’

Tyler smiled, and threw in his ante. ‘Deal me.’

Gene dealt his hand, and took a slow, deliberate drag off his cigarette, because, if the knowing light in Tyler’s eyes on that sly upward glance was anything to go by, the curve of Tyler’s mouth was making his own twitch and stretch in a way that surely must look stupid.

  


* * *

  


The first time Gene stepped foot in Sam Tyler’s flat, he had felt the world shift beneath his feet with a sense of revelation so shattering that he doubted he ever truly recovered. And that was only partly due to the sight of his DI cuffed to his bed, spread out utterly naked, not a stitch of clothing in sight.

And he had so little clothing at that, once Gene found the chance to investigate. Six shirts. Two pairs of trousers – the black folded into the wardrobe, the red strewn across the floor, tangled with a pair of white y-fronts that Gene was very deliberately not looking at in favour of glaring into the wardrobe. Six shirts.

While Gene’s sole acquaintance with the type of people who come from Hyde consisted of that pointy-nosed bird his mate Jonesy had married after their time with National Service, he didn’t mind reading Tyler as a consistent type of Hyde bloke. He was quaint, ridiculously picky, strutted about with a persistent smell of cleanliness wafting from his hair and skin, a fresh soapy smell that made Gene’s nostrils twitch in a way that wasn’t entirely disgusted, just curious.

A man shouldn’t smell so clean unless he’s been living half his life in the shower, which seemed a ridiculous notion before but now that Tyler had been locked away in his tiny bathroom for the last twenty minutes, Gene was starting to have second thoughts. Daft bugger hadn’t even thanked him when Gene had finally unlocked the cuffs, just shot upright and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Gene alone to wait with only the flat’s sparse contents and a rampant imagination for company.

Gene thumbed through the hanging shirts again, counting silently. Six. Tyler had a second jacket, didn’t he? A brown – but no, June’s blood had left it ruined in the alley. For all the intensity of his memory of Tyler’s willful, impassioned rage, Gene couldn’t remember what had happened to the jacket afterward, what had happened to the imagined wealth of material things he had expected a picky priss like Tyler to own. Best he could reckon was that Tyler was the sort to pack light. Or else he was so completely daft that he had forgotten to pack altogether.

The water pipes released a low groan of protest, the water likely running cold.

Maybe Tyler wouldn’t have run off to the shower so quickly if Gene hadn’t stopped first to finger the St. Christopher around his neck, turning and tugging it like it were a bloody gift tag on an especially surprising Christmas present. He never would have dared to touch what he had already taken in with his eyes, not when the lad was still helpless like that, but the little medallion had slipped to the side of his neck, somehow appearing more debauched than all that naked flesh, and he had wanted to put it right.

Put it right. Gene snorted, stubbed out his cigarette in an empty wine glass. Nothing about this was right.

The noise of water splashing unevenly from behind the loo’s thin accordion door was seeping into his mind, creating misted images of Tyler moving beneath the spray, displacing the steady flow of water with the movement of his body. This was so easy now that he knew exactly what Tyler looked like naked, so easy to picture all that glowing, solid flesh dripping wet, slippery beneath Tyler’s smooth hands as he soaped himself up, so thoroughly because he was always so clean, so careful to see to every last curve and crevice, such a clean boy… such a _dirty_ boy…

Right. No, _wrong_. Gene shook his head angrily. This was so utterly wrong. His imagination was no longer allowed to play the waiting game, which left Gene and this shitty derelict of a flat and six lousy shirts. Not for the first time, he cursed Sam Tyler in all his fastidious glory, wished to hell that he would just hurry up and finish himself off… no, not _that_ , just finish…

Goddamn it.

Gene snatched a shirt at random from its wire hanger, desperate to get his hands around something before they dove into his trousers to see to his inconvenient erection. Rubbing the polyester between his fingers, he examined the garment disdainfully for lack of anything safer to do. White with blue and brown stripes. That same clean smell, of Tyler’s skin rather than washing powder, and his cock twitched again. Gene shut his eyes, tried to picture his own wardrobe. How many shirts did he own? The missus usually bought him one every birthday, the mother-in-law at Christmas, and while he tended to reach for the same ones time and again, they were kept in good company with the shirts for special occasions, the shirts in need of mending that would never get done, a whole history of shirts adding up in his wardrobe like the rings of an oak tree.

Six shirts. Two pair trousers. One leather jacket. Empty shelves, empty walls. The numbers didn’t add up to much, made Gene grimace with a pang of loneliness.

‘Guv?’

Startled, Gene jumped and looked over his shoulder, mouth going dry at the sight of Tyler crossing the bedsit, hair spiked with damp, a slightly frayed towel slung about his hips.

‘Bout ruddy time,’ Gene grunted, ignoring the rasp under his false front. ‘Now get some damned clothes on already, we’ve got scum to clean up out there.’

Tyler glanced up from where he was bent forward, collecting his red trousers from the floor. ‘You’re blocking the wardrobe,’ he remarked coolly.

Gene dodged out of the way, quickly and perhaps a bit guiltily. He looked resolutely away, staring numbly at the y-fronts Tyler had thrown aside once he’d untangled them from his trousers, swallowing when the damp towel flew to the corner of the room to join them and realizing he had miscalculated horribly in stepping to the wrong side of the wardrobe, trapped by the bed on one side and Sam’s naked body on the other.

He closed his eyes, started counting shirts in his mind, but six was really such a small number.

  


* * *

  


‘I made a huge mistake, Nelson.’ Gene took a bracing swallow of his whisky. ‘Well, a couple, really.’

‘Mistakes will happen, mon brave.’ Nelson was already topping up his glass, bottle always at the ready. ‘Thing is, you’ve got to face up to ‘em, figure out where you went wrong so as you don’t repeat yourself.’

‘Maybe I want to repeat this one…’ Suddenly wary, Gene looked about, but the rest of CID had long since left him and Tyler to their celebration; Tyler had excused himself to the gents, who knew how long ago now. ‘And who knows, maybe it’s alright, actually listening to the crazy bastard, if it means we finally got to put Warren down.’

‘Is that what you’re talking about?’ Nelson chuckled, swept a few more empty glasses off the bar. ‘Oh, brother, that was no mistake.’

 _‘Oh, give over, Guv.’ Though he didn’t dare look, Gene could hear the exasperated eye-roll in Tyler’s words. ‘Nothing here you haven’t taken a good long look at already, is there?’_

 _‘Not my fault you were showing it off, you kinky tart.’ And he had to glare at Tyler when he said it, to prove that he could, to prove that he wouldn’t flinch even when Tyler did, hands trembling briefly over his belt buckle._

 _‘And I suppose I asked for it, did I?’ Tyler’s voice was barely a bitter mumble, lost to the muffling cover of the clean white vest he tugged over his head. Something in the way he straightened the thin cotton over his chest and stomach, tucking himself together with that defensive hunch to his shoulders, made Gene frown and wish he had kept his mouth shut._

 _‘Can I have my shirt, Guv?’_

 _Gene glanced down, remembering the shirt still clutched in his hands, and wondered how long his thumb had been stroking over the polyester like that. ‘This shirt?’_

 _Tyler gave him one of his more scathing looks. ‘Yeah._ That _shirt.’_

 _‘Quit your sulking, Tyler.’ Gene shoved the shirt into his chest and promptly crossed his arms, drawing his coat around himself to conceal the lingering hard-on tenting his trousers. He watched with narrowed eyes as Tyler fastened the row of buttons with rapid, efficient flicks of his fingers. ‘’S’not like you haven’t got others,’ he grumbled._

 _‘True,’ Tyler murmured, eyes flickering upward, ‘but you picked out this one.’_

A faint, high-pitched whine filled Gene’s ears, prodding his attention towards the television set him and Sam had brought to Nelson a couple evenings ago. God Save the Queen must have droned to a stop some time ago, replaced by the test card with her clown, her noughts and crosses.

He frowned. Even though the Grand National had been a treat to watch in the pub with his mates rather than alone at home under the watchfully disapproving eye of his wife, Gene wasn’t sure that he much cared for having a telly in his boozer, with its ability to mark time moving forward. Time never existed in here before, the light unchanging and the room devoid of clocks.

‘Can’t you shut that damn thing off?’ he grumbled, rubbing at his throbbing temple.

‘Sorry, mon brave.’ Nelson kept to his cleaning, otherwise unresponsive to Gene’s request.

‘Right.’ Gene drained his whisky, shook his head. ‘S’all bloody Tyler’s doing, anyway,’ he continued, thinking back on Warren.

‘Your fine figure of a desk sergeant certainly thinks so.’

‘An’ Phyllis is right on the money there, as usual.’ Gene glanced up, frowned at the faraway look on Nelson’s face, the towel in his hand gliding repetitively over the glass in his hand, long since sparkling. ‘An’ you can wipe that dreamy smirk off your gob an’ all, even if I were prepared to look the other way on that one, she’d eat you alive an’ spit out the leftovers anyway.’

‘Ah, if I would be so lucky…’ Nelson shook his head wistfully, put the glass away with its sisters. Gene snorted derisively.

‘Trust me, Nelson, you’re better off steering clear.’

‘Not so, not so at all.’ The fake Jamaican patois had lapsed into Nelson’s softer Lancastrian accent, as it sometimes did when Gene found himself alone with the barman, as Nelson did with no one else. He fixed Gene with a solemn gaze, that soft smile still curving his mouth. ‘Any love what’s worth it at all is bound to happen on a battlefield, mon brave.’

Something like a stone seemed to sink through Gene’s body. ‘Enough of that romantic bollocks,’ he grumbled, staring back into his pint. ‘You’ll put me off me drink.’

 _Gene stared, eyes widening at the unmistakably flirtatious tone of his DI’s voice, uncertain how to reply to something that was clearly meant as a deflecting joke but that managed to slice him open all the same. There was something of a challenge in the smile, something vulnerable in the way Tyler’s hands were tugging the unbuttoned cuffs of his shirt to cover the faint welts on his wrists. The combination of both was captivating, stirring up a disorienting rush of arousal, concern, and sheer possessiveness in Gene’s gut._

 _So help him, but in that moment all Gene wanted to do was snog the strange bastard senseless. Instead, he cleared his throat, hoping the gravelly sound was somewhat forbidding to Tyler’s ears._

 _‘An’ it looks lovely on you, Dorothy. Now, reckon we can go get some sodding work done now you’re all gussied up?’_

‘C’mon, Guv.’ A hand slid over his shoulder, startling Gene upright. ‘Shift it, we’re leaving.’

‘Took your sodding time, thought you’d fallen in.’ Gene craned his neck to glare at Sam. The other man looked strangely flushed, most likely from the booze.

‘Um, yeah.’ Sam looked away, flicked a smile at Nelson. ‘Cheers, mate.’ Pound notes were being passed somewhere beneath his field of vision, gone before he could start to count, and Gene realized that he must be more than a little pissed by now. With a resolute nod, he straightened his spine, prepared to set the gears in motion, starting with his coat… where had his coat gone…

‘Here.’ One of Gene’s outstretched hands caught the familiar heft of camel-hair and slipped into the sleeve that Sam was holding out for him. With an approving hum, he allowed his deputy to fold him into his coat, rolling his shoulders as those finicky hands pulled the garment precisely in place.

‘G’night, Nelson.’ Gene slurred his way off the barstool, supporting himself with a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Nelson glanced up, broom in hand. ‘Pleasant dreams, Mr. Hunt.’ His dark eyes tracked significantly sideways, indicating Sam’s averted back with a look before meeting Gene’s own blurring gaze, curiously sombre. ‘You’ve earned it.’

Gene wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that, but Sam was tugging at his coat anyway, so he left with what he hoped was a wise huff of breath, keeping his hand nestled beneath the smooth leather of Sam’s collar so as not to lose his deputy in the darkness of the pub’s back yard. It had started to rain, lighter than a monsoon but steady enough to thread through his hair like fingers and crawl down the splayed collar of his shirt. Sam’s leather coat was growing slick under his hand, and slipped out of his grasp with a remarkably loud and funny sound when Sam turned abruptly around. His mind elsewhere, Gene didn’t fully process the move until his chest collided with Sam’s body, until his gaze collided with the rivulets of water tracing the contours of Sam’s face.

‘Gene.’ The sound of the rain threatened to drown Sam’s voice, but Gene could read his name on those lips, so terribly close and gleamingly wet. His mouth was still open, as though to continue speaking, but the rain was so loud that it seemed sensible to lean in closer to hear what he had to say and there was so little distance left between them that he swallowed his words instead, their lips meeting almost by accident, cool and slick with rain.

The kiss was simple, an anticlimax of sliding pressure and faint movement of mouths yet it made Gene spring away with shock, blinking water out of his eyes, suddenly sober. He stared at Sam’s lips, saw them moving in the dark, snatches of rapid speech drifting to his ears over the pounding rain: ‘… too drunk… an’ hope… won’t remember any… fuck, your eyes…’ Sam looked increasingly more desperate the longer he spoke, and Gene found himself closing the distance again, needing to hear better than this, and suddenly Sam was flush against him again, insinuating his dripping wet, leather-clad arms beneath the dry shelter of his open coat, mouth moving against Gene’s ear, his rough voice amplified over the rain.

‘…and it’s fucking insane, I don’t understand it at all, but fuck, I couldn’t help it, tossing off in the gents just now, so hard just from looking at you…’

Gene groaned weakly, hoped the rain would drown the noise.

‘…and again yesterday, in the shower, knowing you were just outside the door, knowing you’d seen me like that… shit, Gene, you could’ve done anything to me, and I couldn’t have stopped you… wouldn’t have wanted to-‘

And there was nothing accidental about the second kiss, no chance for mistaken impressions in the way Gene grabbed Sam by the back of the neck and turned his head and tore at Sam’s mouth with his own, forcing his way inside and tasting rain and whisky and something utterly unique beneath it all. Sam’s mouth opened wider under his, tongue coaxing and welcoming with a low and delirious sound echoing from deep inside his throat, and Gene chased it down, desperate to see how deep this rabbit hole really went, desperate to hold on as long as he could. His arms tightened around Sam, crushed the weight of a firm body and sodden clothing against his own, everything now wet with rain, and was both surprised and relieved that Sam didn’t simply dissolve into a puddle, a dream at his feet. _Oh, what a world…_

The first time Gene kissed Sam Tyler, the first time Gene was kissed by Sam Tyler, he knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

  


* * *

  


‘Will you be having another, mon brave?’

Gene seriously considered the question, his gaze shifting from his half-empty pint to Nelson’s hand on the tap before he twisted on his barstool to scan the empty chairs and tables. Not even a drift of cigarette smoke filled the room, his last fag long since stubbed out in the ashtray at his elbow.

As a last resort, he checked his watch. The football match would still be going about now, which made it another half hour at least before any other punters would be showing up, and Gene doubted he could stand the silence for quite so long as that. He sighed. He really should have gone to the match after all, eleventh-hour murder investigations and football hooligans be damned.

And Sam really should have joined him for this pint afterwards, not begged off with some half-arsed excuse. Maybe Sam had gone to the match as well, United-supporting git that he was, and Gene sighed again, rapping a knuckle ponderously on the bar.

United. Just another thing that made having it off with a bloke so goddamned messy.

‘DCI Hunt?’

Gene shook his head. ‘Nah, Nelson, you’re alright. Best be off anyway.’ He hoisted his pint and took a hearty swig, suddenly anxious to leave.

‘Hold up a moment.’ Nelson raised a thin finger, the gesture strangely grand. ‘There’s something you should see.’

He turned and strained upward, hand gliding past top-shelf single malts and cognac and sliding around a dusty, unopened bottle that he gingerly lifted down, setting it sagely before Gene. He squinted at it, trying to read the dark amber colour through the hazy glass before giving it up for a bad job. ‘Looks lovely,’ he concluded, reaching out and frowning when Nelson shifted the bottle out of reach. ‘What the hell-‘

‘It’s not for drinking, this.’ Nelson slid the bottle forward again with a forbidding look that Gene felt compelled to obey.

‘You’re being a tease, Nelson.’ He reached for his beer, slaking his thirst in tan and bitter instead. ‘So what’s it for, then?’

‘About your Sam.’

His pint glass hit the bar again with a heavy thunk, beer sloshing up its sides and over his hand. Gene stared down numbly at the mess, replayed the words in his mind. Well, two words out of three _…your Sam._

He liked the sound of that.

What he liked significantly less was Nelson’s knowing emphasis on the two words, the way his mouth shaped them into something too suggestive for Gene’s taste. ‘What about Sam?’ he retorted.

‘You’re a man who likes his scotch.’ Nelson had produced a cloth from somewhere behind the bar, and was slowly wiping down the sides of the bottle, eliminating dust one steady stripe at a time. ‘Some might reckon, more than any man properly should.’

‘I know me limits,’ Gene snapped defensively.

‘And I’m not one to cater to your limits, Mr. Hunt.’ Something derisive pulled at Nelson’s mouth in his upward gaze away from the bottle. ‘To do so would bode ill for a man of my profession, you understand?’

‘Well, your concern is touching.’ He lifted his pint in a sardonic toast, took a weary sip, and wondered where the rest of Nelson’s patrons had gone off to that he had to drink with this for company. They couldn’t all be at the match.

He was quite sure Sam hadn’t planned to be at the match.

‘A single malt is a fine thing indeed, brother.’ Nelson shook out his dusty cloth, then turned the bottle so that the label faced Gene. ‘This one came to me as a favour repaid, just appeared on my doorstep one day, probably as surprised as I was.’ He chuckled briefly, gave the bottle a friendly pat. ‘Bottled at Port Ellen, over on Islay, not that long ago… 1969.’ His finger tapped the date on the label, written in by the distiller’s hand. Gene raised his eyebrow, knowing this was no common whisky from the local off-license.

‘Four years ago. But before that, it waited, coming of age inside a barrel, sitting in the dark… how long? Thirty years at least for this one, maybe more…’ Nelson shrugged. ‘Funny thing, how a single malt can be two ages at once, don’t you think? Four years old… thirty or more…’

Gene grunted dismissively. ‘Fantabulous. If you’re trying to sell it, you’re doing a fine job, but don’t mean I can afford it on a copper’s wage packet.’

Nelson looked scandalized. ‘I’m not trying to _sell_ it, pal. It’s already yours.’

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Gene drummed his hands on the bar. ‘Open ‘er up, then.’ But Nelson shook his head with an unchanging air of mild offense.

‘Not yet.’ His dark-eyed gaze fell back to the scotch. ‘These things should properly take time to open. A glass bottle is a peculiar thing indeed, mon brave.’ And now his fingers were tapping notes out of the glass, ascending from the bottom up. ‘I’ve seen a good many scraps break out in my pub, and when they do, a full bottle is a formidable weapon: heavy, strong. But sometimes, if a man isn’t careful, or if he so choose to be careless on purpose, you break the bottle,’ Nelson’s hand closed in a fist around the neck, ‘and it cuts. Still a weapon, but of a different sort. It can kill, rip a man apart.’

Gene felt all the stale air leave the pub, and held his breath.

‘It’s a good scotch, this.’ Nelson’s hand relaxed, stroked the slender throat of the bottle. ‘He’s got such a long neck as well, yes?’

A sudden flash of light illuminated the whisky, cutting its deep amber with waves of blue; Gene’s eyes flickered up to the telly on those brackets Sam had rigged up, wondering when Nelson had turned it on for the evening news or whether his barmaid had done so during their conversation. ‘Are we still talking about the scotch or what?’ he snapped, temper rising.

‘I think you know the answer to that.’

Gene shook his head and drained his pint, recognizing Nelson’s deliberate evasiveness for the stupid game it was, part of the man’s mysterious front that concealed the bland fact of a pub owner’s ordinary life. ‘Til tomorrow then, Nelson,’ he said by way of farewell, dropping coins on the bar as he rose to his feet.

‘Tomorrow,’ agreed Nelson, sweeping the money into his hand. ‘Yes, by tomorrow I think you’ll know.’

Gene hesitated, considered walking out without reply, but turned back with his hands planted on his hips, gazing wearily at the smoke-stained ceiling. ‘Know what?’ he drawled.

‘His eyes.’

‘You what?’ Gene snapped his gaze back to Nelson, who stared back at him steadily, solemnly, his hand still grazing over the side of the single malt.

‘What colour are his eyes?’

Gene opened his mouth angrily, and froze. Nelson was watching him, and looked almost sympathetic now. He asked again, softer.

‘What colour are his eyes?’

In the end, Gene left wordlessly anyway. He didn’t know.

  


* * *

  


These were the times when Gene wondered whether he was actually driving the Cortina or if the car took over for him once in a while. He twisted through Manchester with no idea of where he was going, passing the station twice and recalling both times that he had no business there right now, not unless he wanted the peace of CID after hours, secluded in the company of the office bottle. But he had never wanted sobriety more in his life.

His thoughts drove fast through Nelson’s words, arriving time and again upon Sam before drifting away. He needed to see Sam - _what colour are his eyes?_ \- but it was getting late and he was hungry too, so maybe home was the way to go. Except that the missus was out tonight so there’d be no tea waiting for him, and somehow beans on toast didn’t seem quite the thing he craved. He craved - _what colour are his eyes?_ \- he craved something more substantial, maybe a nice steak pie, warm short pastry crust and piping hot inside, something comforting against the rain pounding the windscreen, and when had it started to rain anyway?

And when had he ended up parked in the street outside Sam’s building? Gene glared out the window at the dark entryway with its peeling paint and lopsided brass number plate.

‘This is all your fault, y’know.’

He swore there was a chortle in the sound of her engine cooling off. Giving the dashboard a familiar slap, Gene took a deep breath, turned up his collar, and stepped out into the rain.

His stomach protested as he climbed the worn concrete stairs, his usual brisk march to Sam’s door a dragging step of dread, knowing that the sound of his stomach growling would lead Sam into a frenetic sweep of his nearly-bare cupboards, cobbling together who knew what ingredients to proudly present him with a smelly plate of foreign-looking something or other that Gene would choke down regardless just to keep the sulky bugger in good enough spirits for a blowjob later.

Gene hesitated, his fist raised to the door, but he was already here, too late to turn away. Sighing, he rapped briskly, twice, then shoved both hands in his pockets.

‘Just a second!’ And damned if that muffled shout didn’t make his irritation waver just slightly.

Then Sam opened the door, and the pleased flicker at the corner of his mouth made Gene realize that he was, in fact, doomed.

‘Wasn’t expecting you, Guv.’ Sam paused, eyes narrowing. ‘There hasn’t been a stabbing or some such, has there?’

Gene shook his head mutely.

‘Good thing, would have ruined my supper otherwise… just give me a moment here…’ Sam was already striding away from the door, leaving Gene to watch in wordless wonder as Sam ducked into the kitchenette and took up a brush and small cup, dipping and streaking what looked to be egg yolk over the pastry covering a pie dish that was almost lost in the clutter of vegetable trimmings, knives and other cooking oddments on the tiny countertop.

Gene sniffed the air suspiciously. ‘What’s that you’ve got there, Gladys?’

‘Steak pie.’ Sam leaned sideways to open the small oven door and hefted the pie dish, easing it carefully inside and giving Gene a view of his arse that really didn’t bear passing up regardless of the anxiety quietly killing the hunger in his gut. ‘Plenty enough for two as well, if you’re sticking around, should be ready in…’ Sam checked his watch, ‘forty-five minutes,’ he finished with a bright grin, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and crossing his arms. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow.

‘You made steak pie.’

‘Yup.’

‘Honest, simple, English steak pie? No weird spices mucking it up, no using turtle meat instead of beef?’

‘Well…’ Sam looked slightly abashed. ‘It’s steak and Guinness, actually… and okay, I may have added cheese, it’s Jamie Oliver’s recipe you see, but it’s just cheddar, still basic, wholesome, rainy-day –‘

‘Sam.’ Gene cut him off, because he didn’t care about whether the pie contained beer or cheese or even that coriander rubbish Sam had gone on about before. He found he didn’t even care who this Jamie bloke was, clearly some nancy poofter what saw fit to swap recipes with his Sam, but he could deal with that later. For now, he closed the space between them, crowding Sam up against the stove and leaning in close. There wasn’t light enough in this crowded alcove to see the colour of Sam’s widening eyes; they simply came across as dark.

‘I was just thinking about how much I’d like some steak pie.’

Sam huffed a short laugh, sounding both amused and slightly nervous in the face of Gene’s solemnity. ‘Must have read your mind then,’ he remarked lightly.

Gene flinched. ‘Come here.’ Forcing a gentle calm into his gestures, Gene took Sam’s bare forearms into his hands and drew him out towards the centre of the flat, beneath the weak light dripping from that hideous lampshade. He tilted Sam’s chin up with the backs of his fingers, staring deep into Sam’s eyes. _What colour are his eyes?_

‘Gene…’ The voice brought him back to the face, to the whole being of Sam Tyler, who was leaning into him now, an expectant playfulness twitching at his eyebrows as he eased closer still, covering Gene’s mouth with his own, lips and tongue softly easing him open.

Thinking back on it, Gene could see how Sam had misunderstood him there.

Hands were tangling into his hair, a clever tongue was slipping wet around and inside his mouth, pushing in and out in a lewd rhythm and the idea that Sam was somehow fucking him sparked across his mind and made Gene’s knees buckle, made it easy to follow Sam to the floor, trying to hold tight to his slight body as they rolled together, lips and legs negotiating their respective positions until Gene found himself nestled between Sam’s sprawling thighs, lapping at the tempting mouth of the man beneath him.

Sam’s hips rolled languidly upward in time to their kiss, the full hardness of his arousal thrusting across Gene’s abdomen, insistently hot even through the confines of denim. Gasping softly, Gene pushed his own hips downward, rocking into the heat between Sam’s legs, groaning when Sam’s thighs parted wider, lifting and wrapping around him and pulling them closer together. The layers of their clothing chaffing between their bodies stoked friction and heat like static across Gene’s skin, charged with something desperate and erotic that he couldn’t begin to name, leaving him short of breath at the sight of Sam arching and shifting into him, hands groping mindlessly over Gene’s body, moaning freely like a prossie with those fluttering eyelashes closing…

‘Don’t,’ Gene rasped. His hands lifted to Sam’s face, holding his head firmly in place and forcing his gaze. ‘Don’t close your eyes, just… just look at me, Sammy, let me see you…’

Sam sucked in a startled breath, and Gene could see the subtle shift of sharpening desire in his eyes, pupils blown into that colour he couldn’t quite define. They were lighter than brown, darker than golden…

‘Gene-‘ Sam choked on his name, his movements feverish and desperate.

‘Shhh…’ His fingertips bit into the hollows beneath his cheekbones, holding as bruisingly as Sam’s hands kneading into his arse, forcing their hips tight together. ‘Don’t fight it, Sam, let it come… want you to come for me, want to see it, want to watch… let me see it, Sammy, show me…’

Eyes wide, almost in wonderment, Sam cried out brokenly, hips bucking and twitching beneath Gene’s body, fingers clawing at him like weapons as Sam’s orgasm flooded through him, seeping damp into his trousers and illuminating his eyes.

Groaning deep in his chest, Gene had to bury his own face in Sam’s neck, breathing in the warmed scent of soap and skin as his own hips worked towards release in the cradle of Sam’s body. And yet, even that spine-snapping rush of pleasure couldn’t erase the truth of Sam’s eyes, intoxicating and amber-warm, the very colour of whisky.

  



	2. Chapter 2

  
The first time Gene caught Sam Tyler having a conversation with Nelson at the far end of the bar, he knew it wouldn’t be the last time. And he suspected this wasn’t the first time, either.

Okay, he _knew_ this wasn’t the first time, because Nelson spoke to everyone, all the bloody time in fact, and he had certainly seen Sam and Nelson exchange words before this. But this was different, this thing that Gene witnessed on entering the near-empty pub rather earlier than usual in the afternoon, this hushed exchange with heads leaning close. Nelson was on the wrong side of his bar, his back to the door as he poured scotch into Sam’s glass, the smooth cadence of his voice drifting to Gene as he approached the pair.

He could swear that wasn’t Nelson’s usual fake Jamaican accent he was hearing as he drew up to the bar, but Sam’s eyes flashed over Nelson’s shoulder, spotting Gene, and the conversation ended, Nelson drifting silently away with a handful of ashtrays.

‘Hope I’m not interrupting,’ Gene greeted, leaning in next to Sam. The look Sam threw him in reply confirmed that he had sounded every bit as insincere as he had hoped.

‘Not at all, Guv.’ Sam made no effort to conceal his own lie, irritation scouring his brow as he turned his attention to his drink, swallowing as rapidly as though scotch were his lifeblood. Gene stared.

‘Isn’t it a bit early in the day for getting pissed?’

‘I’m not pissed,’ he snapped, in a voice that did sound entirely sober but weak with exhaustion. ‘And that’s a bit of a laugh, coming from you.’

Gene let the insult roll over him, distracted by the weariness he could see in Sam’s face now that he was on the receiving end of a steady, bitter glare. Dark circles smudged the fine skin beneath his eyes in a face that was pale and lined with fatigue, lacking the easy warmth Gene had come to enjoy in their more private moments. Something was wrong with his Sam, and Gene felt, not for the first time, a desperate, protective surge that hadn’t entirely faded since that debacle of a hostage situation last week at the Gazette. It had all come out right in the end, a fact of which Gene reminded himself every time his hand had the privilege of stroking down Sam’s naked flank beneath the blankets of a shared bed, but the thing had still come too close for comfort, still startled him awake at night with visions of Sam’s tear-filled eyes and the sound of a revolver discharging and Sam shattering like glass, bleeding whisky into Gene’s clothes.

From the looks of it, Gene wasn’t the only one losing sleep. It occurred to him that he could offer his own sleeplessness as something like sympathy, but then the front door knocked open and Chris was tripping into the Arms, Ray giving him a playful slap as he followed, and suddenly the pub was lively with the banter of half of CID’s men gathering at the tables. Gene bristled uncomfortably and glanced back at Sam, gut twisting at the hopeless stare he was sinking into his scotch.

‘Oh, get off it, Gladys.’ Gene raised his voice authoritatively and pushed away from the bar. ‘You keep sulking like that and you’ll just end up spoiling a good evening out for the rest of us.’

And at least Sam stopped gazing pitifully into his drink, but it really wasn’t worth the raw, wounded flinch that made him snap shut before Gene’s eyes. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’ Sam drained his scotch in a single swallow, slammed the glass down on the bar top, and shoved past Gene for the door.

‘Shit.’ Gene twisted around, heart pounding without fully understanding why. ‘Damn it, Sam… Sam!’ But the door had already fallen shut behind him and Gene cursed again under his breath.

‘Poof.’

Gene glared at Ray before he could stop himself, then looked away uneasily, sensing Nelson watching him along with half his punters. He caught Gene’s eye and tilted his head towards the door, a suggestion or a demand but it didn’t matter either way because he was already outside, scanning the lane and spotting a slim shape in dark denim and leather walking briskly east.

More than anything, Gene wanted to give chase down the street, tear up the pavement between them, shake some sense into the moody bastard and fall into the sort of shameless groping and snogging best left behind in his school days. But the latter especially just wouldn’t do for broad daylight on a public lane so he held his ground, chin jutted forward.

‘Oi!’ Gene yelled down the street. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’

Sam glared over his shoulder, hands buried in pockets, the picture of petulance. ‘Home,’ he said and, inexplicably, let out a short laugh too much like a sob, despite the ironic smile twisting his lips.

‘Y’know you don’t have to, you soft jessie.’

‘Don’t think I can anyway.’ Sam stared down at his feet, the toe of one of his Cuban boots stabbing at the cobbles, then looked up again. ‘You could come along, if you wanted,’ he offered hesitantly. ‘Could make us summat to eat, or maybe we could…’ He trailed off suggestively and Gene flushed, his eyes scanning the lane.

‘You know I can’t, what would that lot think if I just disappeared?’ he snapped back with a toss of his head back to the door, instantly regretting his words on seeing Sam’s shoulders slump.

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Sam turned towards him properly and started walking forward; Gene watched, startled to see a quiet pride rising in Sam’s body with each step. ‘Suppose you’d best get back in the pub then, have a few with your proper mates and not embarrass yourself with me any more than you already have-‘

‘Don’t.’ A bitter burst of shame flooded Gene’s gut, though not of the sort Sam suspected. He hated his own fear, resented the need for discretion, and channeled his disgust outward in the two fingers he jabbed into Sam’s incredulous face. ‘You know why I can’t, and it’s got nothing to do with you being a bloody embarrassment, even if you are coming stupidly close to it with your girly pouting.’ Sam chuckled scornfully, and its ugly cynicism fuelled Gene’s anger, had him closing the distance between them in two brisk strides. ‘I will _not_ go feeling guilty about this, and I do _not_ feel ashamed of you, got it? You’re _my_ Sam, an’ I don’t give a toss if-‘

‘I’m what?’

He caught up a beat too late, stifled by the gobsmacked look on Sam’s face, and rather wished he had been able to savour it, the first time he had said those two words out loud. And Sam had asked as much, so he said it again, only slightly less angry: ‘My Sam.’

Sam swallowed hard, his eyes flashed to either side of them, and he moved quick as a feverish dream, pressing in tight for a searing kiss, one hand cupping Gene’s groin between them. Moist, hungry lips dragged along his jaw, over his ear, deafening Gene to all but the heavy rasp of breath ghosting hot against the flesh, the heightened sensations swept away by the drag of a tongue, the quick bite of teeth firm as the thumb that found and thrummed the head of his cock, straining damp through cotton and polyester. Gene groaned deeply, and quick as the assault had come, Sam drew away and smirked at Gene’s breathless arousal.

‘See you later then, gorgeous.’ A wink, and he was gone.

Gene shuddered, only the once, and turned his shoulder into the reassuring solidity of brick and mortar at his side, scanning the empty street, hoping they hadn’t been seen, hoping that they had been seen, that there was a witness who could corroborate Sam’s existence in all his crack-brained, audacious and irresistible glory.

This, he considered, must be what it feels like to be mad.

  


* * *

  


Contrary to his own espoused common sense, Gene had not gone back into the Arms, but had climbed into the Cortina and driven to the station, even though it was indecently late in the afternoon. Sure enough, CID had been long since abandoned, leaving only a smoky non-light to press against his partition windows while Gene paced around his desk, taking the occasional, forgetful drag off his Marlboro and staring down at the scarce pages of the folder sitting open on top of a jumble of skin mags and crime scene reports. He couldn’t stop looking at those few pages, because the staff file at least proved that Sam Tyler existed on paper, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit and read a fourth time, knowing he’d come away dissatisfied once more. Gene wasn’t one for paperwork – Sam certainly knew as much – but he knew his own file contained far more history than these three pages.

All the proper things were there. A name, a rank, dates filled in where they needed to be, name and signature of the transferring DCI from Hyde. But after that, there was next to nothing.

He walked several more paces. Stopped. Tapped his foot. Winced at a sudden flare of white-hot pain in his fingertips and threw away the burnt-out filter of his cigarette with a grumbled curse. There was really only one thing for it, and Gene squared his shoulders anew as he reached for the telephone, sitting stoically in his chair while he dialed the faded number on the directory sellotaped to the lower right corner of his desk.

‘Lancashire Constabulary, C-Division Hyde, how may I – ‘

Gene cut off the dull female monotone abruptly, eyes fixed on Sam’s transfer papers. ‘I need to speak to DCI Frank Morgan, CID, quick as you like, love.’

‘May I ask whom wishes to speak with DCI Morgan…?’ A cool edge was frosting through the phone line, which at least indicated a personality on the other end. Gene was starting to warm to her already.

‘DCI Gene Hunt, over in A-Division. Just needed a quick word about a transfer of his, won’t take a second-‘

‘I’m sorry, DCI Hunt, but DCI Morgan isn’t available right now.’

Gene scoffed, kicked his feet up onto his desk. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to go check that fact out before jumping to conclusions?’

‘No need for that, he’s not here, is he?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I just did, you pillock!’ Gene raised his eyebrows; she was downright scrappy now. Interesting. ‘Look, I can take a message if you like, but I’m telling you now, he’s not –‘

‘Okay, fine, forget about Morgan. Maybe you can help me out with this one, hmn?’ He slouched deeper into his chair as he spoke, his relaxed posture slipping into his lowered voice. ‘Think you can check something for me at your end, petal?’

‘Might do.’ The woman had gone back to frosted indifference, but it sounded forced. He smirked; even over the phone, the stroppy bird just couldn’t resist the Gene Genie.

‘Just need you to find me any files on Detective Inspector Sam Tyler you might still have floating about your Division, only I don’t think all his paperwork made it through when he transferred-‘

‘Sam Tyler?’

‘That’s right. DI Tyler, transferred to A-Division CID about-‘

‘We haven’t got any Sam Tylers here.’

Gene heaved an annoyed sigh. ‘That’s because he _transferred_ , love. See, that’s what it’s called when a copper goes from one place to-‘

‘Don’t give me that back-chat, sunshine, I’m telling you that we’ve never had any Sam Tyler working here,’ she snapped back. ‘I swear, someone needs to give you a good slap, the way you carry on…’

Her lecture faded, disappeared while he struggled to process the first part of her interruption. Gene closed his eyes, dragged a hand over his mouth, opened his eyes.

‘That can’t be right.’

Even in a hoarse croak, his voice managed to cut her off briefly. A strange silence filled the phone line, then Gene frowned at the shrill bark of laughter that filled his ear. ‘I’m afraid it is. I’ve been working this Division me whole career and have never had an officer here by the name of Sam Tyler. So don’t you go calling me a liar, I know this station like the back of me hand, I do, and-‘

A distant ringing filled Gene’s head, his hand white-knuckled around the phone’s handset, slammed into its cradle with resounding force.

He eventually remembered how to breathe, slow deep inhales and shaky exhales that measured out the time that passed with his hand clenched over the phone. That was time that Gene could remember, heavy with indecision before the world sped up and there was blinding sunshine and receding buildings and by the time he was mounting the modest stairs into Hyde’s police station Gene realized he wasn’t quite sure how he had come to be here at all.

Regardless, his instincts and the Cortina had driven him this far, so there was nothing else to do except approach the front desk and address himself to the towering blonde behind the counter. ‘I need to see DCI Morgan,’ he snapped, ‘straight away.’

‘Oh, no, not you again.’

Momentarily confused, Gene frowned at the woman who was already scowling back at him, arms primly crossed beneath her impressive bosom, blue eyes flashing indignantly. ‘Sorry, love, but do I-‘

‘Sorry indeed!’ She sniffed derisively with an extravagant toss of her head that failed to unsettle so much as a wisp of her tightly coiled hair. ‘Sure, it’s all _lovey_ this and _petal_ that, but where you get off hanging up on one like that… did your mum teach you any manners at all?’

‘Goddamn it.’ Gene rolled his eyes, and glared back at the desk sergeant, the woman he had just been on the phone with however long ago. She wasn’t half-bad to look at, really, and Gene tried his damnedest to ogle the curve of her breasts, his mood darkening even further when the sight did nothing for him. ‘Look, I don’t want to make trouble for you, but I need to know-‘

‘Look yourself.’ A stack of folders smacked the countertop between them, releasing a miniature miasma of dust. ‘Every copper what’s ever worked here starting with the letter T, and you’re not gonna find any Sam bloody Tylers in there, check yourself if you don’t believe me…’

Gene hadn’t waited for the invitation, was already pushing through the pile, clocking names and shoving them aside until his hands were empty, useless on the counter and starting to shake just slightly. Angrily, he clenched his fingers into fists.

‘DCI Hunt?’ Gene glanced up sharply at the softened tone of the desk sergeant. ‘There just isn’t… well, how about… maybe, if you have a photo of this Tyler, I could show it around and see…?’

Another shudder of horror made his eyes squeeze shut. There were no photographs of Sam, nothing in his staff file, no party snapshots tacked up to the walls of the office or secreted away in his desk. Nothing.

‘How about a cuppa? Can I-‘

‘No.’ He backed away from the counter, shaking his head. ‘No, you can’t.’ His back found the station door, and he was gone.

  


* * *

  


Inhale.

Hold.

Holding. Finally, helpless exhale.

 _You’re breathing…_

Inhale. Right down to the filter. Hold, and exhale again. _You’re breathing, your heart’s beating…_

Gene threw the remains of his third cigarette out the Cortina’s open window and gave his head a shake against the rush of droplets blowing into the car. At least now he could tell when the rain started again, though the awareness did little to ease the indescribable confusion of something disastrous slicing away at the edges of his world, a knowledge or lack thereof waiting to resolve itself in the most resistant corners of all that Gene had ever taken as given.

If the drive out to Hyde had proven anything at least, it was that he really had no idea what Hyde folk were like at all. That desk sergeant could have given Phyllis a run for her money any day of the week, her manner and attitude so familiar that it made Sam seem even more foreign to his eyes. He remained a puzzle piece that just didn’t fit into any picture Gene had ever clapped eyes on, shaped only for the most secret parts of Gene’s life that he had never known were there in the first place.

He remembered now, with different eyes, that lively rush of joy, the first time Gene had looked to Sam and _knew_ they were thinking the same thing and they had moved as one, leaping over the desk, nearly knocking over old Mrs. Raimes in the process. It had been bloody wonderful, and now it made Gene feel physically sick.

Sam had almost died, almost taken a bullet to the head, wearing one of the new and blessedly subdued shirts Gene had helped him pick out only the week before – Sam had nine shirts now, it helped a little bit – but the thing that scared him beyond the fear of his death was that laugh, almost lost in the chaos of Litton’s bravado and the shock of a bullet that came far too close, but seconds before all hell had broken loose Sam had laughed, ringing bright on a wide smile, eyes alight with something other than the gleaming of tears.

A fucking gun to his head, and Sam had _laughed_.

 _It’s an illusion of life_. That’s what Reg Cole had said about his Sam, the insensible words that now made Gene’s palms sweat inside his leather gloves. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, jaw set.

Sam, whose fingers had traced the scars on Gene’s back as though he had always known they were there, as though he understood. Sam, whose own body was smooth and unmarked by any trace of war, childhood or history of any sort. So slender and slight, like the sketch of a man half-completed, hair cut short, caught halfway between here and there and so utterly _mad_ , Sam and him both, like sharing a brain between the two of them.

 _It’s an illusion of life._

From the day he had shown up in Gene’s world, Sam Tyler had never been entirely there. And now Gene knew, it was because he had never been there at all.

There was no need to knock anymore. All it took was a hard, precise blow to the weak and worn lock casing and Gene was striding into Sam’s flat, kicking the broken door back into its frame even as his eyes sought and spotted Sam, or this figment that he had come to call Sam, this thing that had deceived him. It was kneeling on the floor in front of the telly, blue light washing an unreal truth across its face as it looked around in alarm at Gene’s sudden entry. Its shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, hanging loose around its lithe body like something borrowed.

‘Gene,’ it spoke, something tremulous in its voice. As Gene stalked closer to the kneeling thing, he could see that its eyes were slightly wet. ‘What are you–‘

He didn’t give it the chance to speak, but swung out impulsively, landing a resounding slap across the creature’s face, hard enough to make it fall sideways and hit the television screen with a dull thunk. It pushed away from the telly remarkably quick, panic already flashing in its whisky eyes, but Gene was faster still, delivering a backhand that sent it the other way, catching the bed in a rattle of rusted springs. Gene closed in while it struggled to regain its balance, only vaguely registering the bare foot that kicked at his shin, the throbbing pain as distant and dull as a sound from another room, preoccupied as he was with subduing the monster before him.

A second sweeping kick knocked him to the ground, and Gene’s only reaction was one of passing triumph as the fall brought him closer to his target, made it easier to grab it by its loose shirt and tear at its seams with a ruthless determination to see inside this illusion, to rip the curtain to shreds. Fabric came apart beneath his hands and Gene faltered, horrified to find nothing but the empty remains of a shirt, but the thing wearing it had merely crawled away towards the wardrobe, not vanished into air. Snarling, he lunged forward and pinned its scrambling body to the carpet, straddling its legs and tearing away its vest for good measure before twisting its arms behind its back.

The handcuffs snapping shut around its wrists were like a talisman, setting the creature still and silent beneath his hands. Gene took a moment to catch his breath, feeling the warmth radiating from the smooth skin beneath his bracing hands. Feeling it rise and fall in time to his own breath, intimate and horrible.

 _You’re breathing, your heart’s beating, but it’s an illusion of life._

Gene flipped the body onto its back, taking in its panting, parted lips and gorgeous whisky eyes, tracking the stretch of its slender torso down to the visible shape of an erection tenting the dark jeans. ‘Of course… you would like this, wouldn’t you?’ he sneered, and reached out to touch it, felt the flesh jump under his palm, almost lively with the imitation of arousal. ‘You’re gonna like anything I want to do to you, aren’t you?’ He rubbed hard with the heel of his hand, anger mounting at the body arching awkwardly into his touch, hips rolling into Gene’s fingers, straining to relieve the pressure on its cuffed hands.

‘Stop that.’ Gene slapped it across that face again; it went still with a soft gasp, staring at him with a solemn intensity that made Gene nervous, made him forget that the creature was his captive, his creation. He reassured himself by indulging in that telltale hardness, roughly fondling with increasing force until he was kneading the flesh beneath his hands like clay, watching to see if it would change shape for him but the shape proved already perfect. He rolled his fingers into the muscled abdomen, gripped the weight of a hard cock with his other hand, leaned in to bite the inseam of a splayed thigh, teeth clenching hard to make it felt through the denim. The body flinched, moaned softly, and still it watched him, that false breath catching but those eyes unchanging and silent.

‘What?’ Gene scowled, dug his fingernails into a nipple and twisted hard, making the body writhe and the head toss backward with a low cry, loosening the grip of its gaze. ‘C’mon, aren’t you going to say anything? Finally run out of your fancy words?’

He could see it come down from the fleeting pain, an uncanny calm restored in those eyes that promised all the slow burn of all the best single malts Gene had ever tasted. The pink slip of a tongue darted over its lips, wetting them before it spoke with Sam’s voice.

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Shouldn’t you know?’ Gene scratched the pale chest with dull fingernails, pleased to see the marks left visibly behind. ‘Clever boy, think you know everything, so go on… tell me…’

The Adam’s apple bobbed along that long neck, so enticing, but its eyes sparked and narrowed with defiance. ‘No.’

Gene released a shuddering breath, and reached for the belt binding his plaything about its waist. ‘Was hoping you’d say that.’

 _I’m gonna miss him._

 _We all will, mon brave. Was a good man. Always paid up his tab every week. Yours too, once in a while._

 _What a top bloke. Don’ know what I’m gonna do without ‘im…_

 _No need for such a sullen face, Mr. Hunt. Your man, Ray, he’s also a good man, no?_

 _Aye… that he is. But mark my words, he’s no Inspector._

 _Not just yet, but the way he was carrying on about his upcoming promotion to that Sarah he’s been romancing these days-_

 _Well, it ain’t gonna happen. Just ‘aven’t got the ‘eart to break it to the miserable sod yet._

 _Best break it to him gently, if you must. Gonna be mighty disappointed, the way he admires you._

 _An’ that’s exactly why it’s never gonna happen. No point in a DI that just chases me shadow like an overgrown puppy. It won’t do, Nelson. It’s not what I need from a DI…_

 _Then what do you need, mon brave?_

 _I need…_

The first time Gene had tossed off while thinking of Sam Tyler, during an especially furtive and angry wank in the shower, the flashes of images in his head looked very much like this, full of snarling limbs and muffled cries and bright metal taming delicate, flighty flesh. And Gene had known, even then, that it wouldn’t be the last time, even as he had bitterly rinsed his shame down the drain.

There was no room for shame in this now, not with such a tight arse sheathing his cock, spasming so hard that Gene felt devoured on each thrust, forcibly dragged in so that each outward slide was a bitter struggle before he plunged in again: faster, for his desperation, harder, the better to assert his right. He laboured for breath, heart racing, the short chain of the handcuffs digging into the palm of his hand with every attempt to drag his toy closer.

Growling with frustration, Gene released his grip on the cuffs and reached for the belt he had looped around its neck like a leash. A sharp, cruel tug brought the sweating, trembling body flush and upright against his own, opened everything to the hand he groped greedily down all that hard flesh to its softened cock, sticky from the orgasm he had already forced upon it but already stirring again at his touch. He fondled it ruthlessly, squeezing hard and grinning at the sensation of flesh twitching in the prison of his hand.

‘Can’t even help it, getting hard for me, can you?’ he panted, pausing to bite its shoulder, relishing its breathless cry and the hardening of its cock under his fingers. ‘Should I make you come again for me? Go on, beg for it…’

But it didn’t beg, either out of defiance or for lack of breath so he angrily pushed his toy forward again, pressing its face back into the cot’s thin mattress and shoving its knees wider apart on the carpet in a savage effort to force his way deeper into its body. A muffled whimper drifted to his ears and he pressed down tight, covering its body with his own to hear the soft keening sounds of its surrender.

‘Mine,’ he hissed, hips stuttering as he felt pleasure coil upward through his body. ‘Mine, mine… were made for this, made for _me_ , all mine…’

‘Oh, god…’ Its head turned sideways, fighting against the belt as it thrashed for breath. ‘Please… _ah_ , Gene-‘

The gasping voice sounded so much like Sam that it dragged him irresistibly into oblivion.

 _I need… someone who’s gonna fight, someone with balls enough to disagree if I’m going wrong… could happen, y’know…_

 _Surely not, mon brave._

 _No need to flatter, Nelson… it’s a dirty business… God knows I’ve had the odd cock-up in my time… might not ‘ave ‘appened if I’d someone willing to say it to my face once in a while…_

 _Don’t envy the man with that job. He’d have one hell of a fight on his hands, no?_

 _Oh, yeah… lovely bit of a punch-up once in a while, but when it mattered? We’d bloody click… he’d be there when it counted… an’ I’ll tell you what, he most definitely wouldn’t scurry off to poxy Leeds just cos he went and got himself hitched to some mouthy battleaxe of a broad-_

 _Easy there, my friend, don’t think it shows the proper camaraderie speaking ill of Inspector Elkins’ woman at his send-off, do you?_

 _Why the ‘ell not? He’s not ‘ere anymore, is he? Big day tomorrow my arse, the slimy Judas just couldn’t wait to get out of here…_

 _Carry on like that and I might well have to cut you off, Mr. Hunt._

 _No, no, you’re right. S’right. I’ll get me a new DI, an’ he’ll make Elkins look like the steaming pile of ‘orseshit that he is… married…bloody women… won’t be having any of that bollocks from the man that replaces him, no women getting in between us, he can be married to the job like any good copper, happy to work all hours at me side an’ still join me for a pint after it all… What?_

 _Just thinking… might be more than a DI what you’re looking for._

Heady with triumph, slaked by orgasm, Gene fell over his toy’s heaving body, lazily satisfied as he dragged his open mouth down the slick heat of its spine, eager to scrape the taste of whisky from that golden skin…

And went still as death, his heart stuttering erratically like a car’s ignition stalling before coming back to life with a racing pulse of panic. This wasn’t whisky beneath his tongue, tasted nothing like it at all.

These were transparent beads of sweat, salty but still so shower-fresh. The scent of striped shirts and short, shampooed hair. The simple smell of Sam.

 _Sam._

‘Fuck,’ Gene cursed, and pushed himself away. His cock slid wetly from Sam’s arse, easier than Gene would have expected but there was nothing easy in the sound Sam made at his withdrawal, a low cry of pain or something else that cut through Gene and made his hands return to Sam’s body, searching erratically. His knees were still splayed apart on the carpet, the light from the television screen glinting off the narrow trace of blood slipping down his inner thigh.

Gene had seen a lot of blood in his years on the force, more in the years before, and this was the first time the sight of it, and of so very little at that, threatened to make him vomit.

He swallowed hard, slid his arms around Sam’s trembling body and eased him the rest of the way onto the bed. The cot’s strained springs took his weight with a high-pitched creaking sound, too much like the sounds Gene had wrought from its frame so recently and it made his stomach lurch sickeningly once more as he struggled to his feet and stumbled towards his coat.

After much shaky searching, Gene turned back to the bed with the key to the handcuffs clenched in his fist and sucked in a sharp breath. Sam was lithely laid out across the dark blankets, his sleek torso twisted slightly, shoulder turning into the mattress to ease his own weight off his chained wrists, the gleam of metal prominently displayed by the angle of his body. He breathed shallow and quick, head dropped weakly to the bed, his long graceful neck extended.

The belt still held Sam’s throat like a collar and trailed off across the bed like an unfinished sentence.

Gene approached with soft, cautious steps and paused, one knee propped on the edge of the mattress. His hand lifted of its own accord, fingers itching for something, then snapped back in alarm at the sound of Sam’s sudden moan, at the shifting of his body against the sheets.

‘Sam… shit, Sam…’ Gene fumbled with the tiny key, hands shaking as he leaned in and struggled to free Sam’s hands. One cuff finally sprang open, and Gene felt a fresh stab of horror at the angry red welt ringing his narrow wrist. He faltered, uncertain whether he could or should try to soothe the hurt, and shut down completely when Sam twisted beneath him and reached up, hands dragging him down.

‘ _Gene_.’ His low groan was unlike anything Gene had ever heard from Sam’s lips, dark and spent and still desperate for more. His own mouth slack with shock, Gene found Sam’s tongue slipping inside with startling ease, lazily tracing the inner curves of his lips. Gene quaked hard, pushed upright again, and flinched when Sam followed close upon him, easing into his lap and brushing a kiss over Gene’s hand as it reached up to draw the belt away, the same hand that had hit him so recently. Gene had never felt so unworthy in his life.

‘That was… oh, fuck, Gene, you have no idea how much I wanted… how badly I needed to feel you, to feel _this_ …’ Sam’s hands convulsed over his body, holding tight, ‘…and it was so… I had no idea you could be so…’ The cold edge of the handcuffs, still dangling from Sam’s wrist, clicked over his chest and Gene frowned down at the hand splayed just beneath his collarbone, over his heart. ‘It feels so… you’re just so _real_ …’

It was like waking up to the sound of an air raid siren – Gene scrambled to his feet, backed away, and like a child he hesitated for lack of knowing what to do. ‘Real.’

Sam blinked up at him, then looked away with a deeper blush than what was already suffusing his body. ‘Yeah.’

‘You…’ Gene struggled for words. Somehow, _Are you real?_ didn’t seem quite the thing. ‘You, um, are you alright?’

A bright smile cracked Sam’s face in two. ‘More than alright,’ he laughed. Too much like the other laugh, and Gene took another step backward.

 _It’s an illusion of life._

‘But I hurt you.’

‘Well… yeah, I’ll be feeling it tomorrow,’ and Sam looked delighted at the prospect, ‘but really, Gene, it’s fine. Really.’

Sam was looking at him almost sympathetically now, as though he understood Gene’s horror, and it was really too much, this forgiveness he never wanted. ‘But I _raped_ you,’ he tried again, refusing to flinch from this.

‘You what?’ Sam stared, his smile fading slightly in disbelief. ‘Bloody hell, Gene, d’you think I would just let you do that if I didn’t want it?’

‘Couldn’t stop me, could you?’

Something stormy passed over Sam’s face. ‘Couldn’t I?’

A familiar arrogance slipped along his spine, tilted his head and narrowed his eyes with a haughtiness that seemed to disregard his own nakedness, the handcuffs still dangling from his wrist. It was a look that threw his vulnerability right back at Gene, and he was suddenly, overwhelmingly self-conscious of his half-dressed state. Guiltily, he looked away and tugged up his trousers, fumbling to set himself right once more, if at all possible. His mind raced, unhinged by sex, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to be Sam, brain going a mile a minute and driving hard into the edges of each other, not knowing where he ended and Sam began, unable to repress the sharp blade of a question when it burst from his lips.

‘Photographs.’

‘You what?’

‘Why are there no photos of you, Sam?’

The question hung in the air, Sam’s expression moving rapidly from open confusion to consideration to something almost inconsolable, his body crumpling into itself on the too-small bed. Gene didn’t wait to see the fullness of his collapse, but grabbed his coat and left the flat.

The first time Gene fucked Sam, he hadn’t wanted it to be like that, like it was his last and only chance before Sam disappeared completely.

  


* * *

  


Gene woke uneasily, dragging himself out of sleep and into the stale reality of his office’s cracked and worn leather settee. The cleaners had turned the lights on in CID, no doubt too damn early as usual but that still made it time to shove away the makeshift blanket of his coat and set to making a presentable day of it.

He nodded a greeting to Eileen the cleaning lady on his way to the gents, splashed some cold water on his face after taking a piss, and by the time he was returning from the canteen with a cup of tea in one hand and a fag in the other, Gene was almost able to forget that awful nightmare, the images distant as a scratchy piece of film.

Gene set his shaving kit out on his desk, and hesitated as his hand brushed over Sam’s transfer papers. So that part, at least, was true.

He studied them again, slowly this time. There were still only three pages, but those three pages hadn’t disappeared with sleep, remained on his desk with the taunting question of how much else was real. Shaving long since forgotten, he tapped his finger over Sam’s name on the first page until Cartwright turned up in his office and he spitefully handed the lot over to be filed away again, watching her intently, seeing no evidence of her own girly crush touching her inscrutably polite face when she looked at his name on the label.

He watched through the window as she navigated her way back through CID. Surely she would react to his unoccupied desk, ask where he had gone if he had existed in the first place.

* * *

By lunchtime, Gene had found a new way to pass the time. He leaned against his filing cabinet, looking out through the ruined angles of his office blinds, and watched his men move about. It was a waiting game heavy on the waiting part, as no one seemed inclined to get off their lazy duffs at all today, but Gene watched with narrowed eyes, sipping slowly at a tumbler filled with his cheapest, harshest blended and waited to see if Chris or Geoff or Clive would glance at the empty surface of Sam’s unoccupied desk on their way past.

He was still waiting.

By half past one, Gene hadn’t yet moved away from the filing cabinet, because his fingers had found a dent in the knackered aluminium and he was tracing it still, trying to remember if the flaw had come from the impact of Sam’s body or if it had always been there.

‘Guv?’

Gene jumped, his elbow knocking a new dent into the cabinet. ‘Ray,’ he rasped.

‘We’ve just had a shout, blag at an off-license. No injuries, but they made off with eighty-odd quid and some cases of beer.’ Ray paused, glanced back out the door into CID, chomping thoughtfully at his gum. ‘Chris and I could sort it out if you, if…’

 _Say it._ Gene stared at Ray, knowing that he knew that Sam and him typically took the first shout of the day, knowing that now would be the time for Sam’s absence to be felt by someone other than himself. He needed to hear Ray speak of Sam, even if he chose ‘nonce’ or ‘poofter’ instead of his DI’s proper name, but Ray wasn’t finishing his thought, only chewing like an idiot and waiting for his Guv’s orders. Gene sighed, nodded.

‘Off you go, then.’ He turned away, went to fetch his coat. ‘You need me for anything, I’ll be in the pub.’

  


* * *

  


‘What can I get for you, mon brave?’

Gene opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it, changing his mind. Such a dumb thing to ask. ‘Scotch,’ he grunted. Close enough.

Nelson watched him closely as he poured a double and slid it across the bar. ‘I see doubts in you,’ he observed softly. ‘So many questions.’

‘Aren’t you a right observant bugger, shall I shine up a detective’s badge for you?’ Gene snapped, snatching up his drink and swallowing it down in one. ‘Pour us another. Actually, just leave the bottle an’ get on with whatever else it is you do when you’re not talking bollocks, okay?’

A disapproving scowl clouded over Nelson’s face, but it quietly faded into a dangerously sanguine smile as he poured another double and dropped the bottle at Gene’s elbow. ‘Drink deep, my friend,’ he murmured, and walked away, greeting his next customers. The Arms was filling steadily with punters, and Nelson remained scarce, especially once Phyllis turned up at the end of her shift, and Gene found it easy to simply drink and smoke amongst his team, even as the questions drowned him faster than the scotch ever could.

What happens to a shitty, damp flat once the door is closed? Does its cheap furniture and strange inhabitant disappear, or does it wait, silent until the door is kicked in once more?

How long had Sam been waiting on his knees before Gene had arrived last night?

Two hours later, Ray and Chris turned up, celebratory over a successful collar, armed with the stolen beer that had been found with the blaggers and dutifully taken into evidence by Manchester’s finest. Said evidence was promptly drunk down by the assembled coppers, and Gene considered how Sam would disapprove, if he were here.

Ray passed along several cans, and Gene drank them all. He could swear he felt something like an animal poking its head up from somewhere inside his gut.

  


* * *

  


‘About my Sam.’ Gene tipped the empty bottle of blended on its side, gave it a desultory spin.

‘What of him, my friend?’

Gene warily double-checked the recently deserted pub, then looked back at Nelson, found he had to look away when he asked after all. ‘Is he real?’

‘Oh, Mr. Hunt…’ Nelson hummed a small laugh from somewhere behind his pressed lips. ‘Things can never be halfway with you, can they? Always one or the other, when you should know they very often are both…’

‘What can I say, I’m a simple man. And right now I’m tired of trying to figure you out.’ Gene leaned aggressively over the bar. ‘So c’mon, just answer the ruddy question already, tell me whatever cryptic bullshit you’re cooking up in there…’

‘Don’t reckon it’s me you should be asking.’ Nelson nodded past Gene’s shoulder, making him spin around and stare. His mouth went dry as he realized Sam was not only _here_ , standing just inside the door with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, but was also staring right back, an annoying blend of irritation and worry creasing between his eyebrows.

Gene swallowed with a dry click, and looked away. Bastard still gave him a hard-on, every time.

Sam took the barstool next to him and settled himself with a delicacy that made the events of last night irrefutable, physically real as the hint of a bruise partway round his throat, damning as the shirt cuffs drawn down over his wrists.

‘Still feeling it, then.’ Gene felt his neck grow hot, and hid his face in his pint, even as he sensed Sam relaxing next to him.

‘Yeah.’ Sam nodded at Nelson, accepted the pint he had pulled for him without being asked, and took a small sip before looking at Gene. ‘And I’ve no intention of feeling ashamed of that, ‘cos last we properly _spoke_ , Gene, you weren’t interested in guilt either, so I’ve no idea where the fuck you get off-‘

‘That’s not why I left.’ Gene didn’t speak loudly, or even as angrily as Sam was now, but something in his voice managed to cut off Sam’s rambling before it got out of hand. He drank some more beer in the respite, waiting for Sam to say something else. He was out of words.

‘You asked if I had any photos of myself.’ Sam pulled a small, glossy print from his coat pocket, smoothed its edges with tender fingers before passing it over to Gene, who accepted it with such careful, compensatory caution that he nearly dropped the photograph into his pint. With an apologetic twist of the mouth, he blinked at the hazy colours of the image.

‘Can’t see your face,’ he muttered, glancing questioningly at Sam, who bit his lower lip slightly and looked away.

‘I know.’

‘Can’t see a damn thing ‘cept your hand and your helmet on the lad’s head, but aye, a dead spit I’m sure.’ He shook his head disdainfully at the sun-bleached gloss of the photo. There weren’t many photos of Gene either, as a constable or as a child, but at least those were in good, simple black and white, not all this slippery uncertain colour of recent years. He handed it back to Sam, feeling suddenly too old. ‘Who’s the boy, anyway? His mum must’ve taken it, the way she’s chopped you out like that.’

Sam pulled a strange face, eyes crinkling at their corners before he gave his head a shake and swept the photo into his coat pocket again. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed roughly. ‘Yeah, she did.’

‘It’s on the house, gentlemen.’ Nelson offered up a warm smile with the bottle of single malt he planted on the bar between them. Gene glanced at the label, the year 1969, and flinched.

‘Cheers, Nelson.’ Sam smiled back, reached for the bottle, and began to pour himself out. The rich, deep amber of the liquid filled Gene’s vision, distracting him from Nelson’s turning back, the dull clunk of a cassette being fed into the 8-track player before he wandered off, disappearing into the back room.

 _Well, you’re my friend  
And can you see  
Many times we’ve been out drinking  
Many times we shared our thoughts  
But did you ever, ever notice  
The kind of thoughts I got?_

‘It’s that Johnny Cash bloke, innit?’ Gene cocked his head, taking in the gravelly tones of the singer’s voice.

Sam’s eyes went strangely out of focus as he listened, a look of fierce concentration pulling a crease between his brows. ‘Yeah… yeah, it is, but I know this song… I…’ His eyes closed, his head dropped down, his lips moving as he muttered the words of the song in a sort of blank speech that echoed against the song’s hoarse verse.

 _And you know I have a drive  
To live, I won’t let go_

Gene reached for his whisky, finding his head nodding in time to the song’s sedate beat of its own accord. ‘S’nice.’

‘It’s _not_ nice, it’s _wrong_ ,’ Sam hissed, angry and urgent. ‘It hasn’t been written yet, won’t be for –‘

‘Shut it.’ His mind made up, Gene slid from his barstool, grabbed Sam by the arm, and dragged him into the clearing between the stacked chairs and empty tables. ‘You don’t make any of this easy, do you? Mad as the March Hare, you are, and a mouthy bastard to boot. And God help me, but you’re a bloke an’ all, an’ if you’d told me a year ago that I’d be having it off with some Dorothy nutter of a fairy-boy–‘

Sam twisted his lip bitterly, tugging away from Gene. ‘Piss off then, you bloody–‘

Stubbornly, Gene grabbed again, dragging Sam close into a loose but demanding embrace. ‘I said, shut it,’ he murmured. ‘You’re a bloke, an’ that means there’s all sorts I’d give me right arm to have with you, things that should be simple but never can be… so I’m having this.’

He began to move, too slow for any of the dances of his youth, but the intention and form was right as he guided Sam to turn gently with him. It was awkward at first, Sam tense and unsure in his arms, but he eventually caught on – he always did, always would – and Gene felt Sam’s hand slide into his own, their fingers threading together.

 _And then I see a darkness  
And then I see a darkness  
And then I see a darkness  
And then I see a darkness  
Did you know how much I love you?  
Here’s a hope that somehow you  
Can save me from this darkness_

‘How’s this for a deal,’ Gene offered quietly, tilting his head down to speak close to Sam’s ear. ‘I won’t go running off after a shag like that again, just… no more disappearing away on me either, eh?’

He waited for an answer, listened to the song and tried to focus on that instead of the anxious sigh that made Sam deflate in his arms.

 _And we can stop our whoring  
And pull the smiles inside  
And light it up forever  
And never go to sleep  
My best unbeaten brother  
This isn’t all I see_

‘I’ll try… but, there are… things, Gene.’ Sam’s voice was soft, as lonely as those first six shirts in the wardrobe. ‘It’s hard to explain, I don’t think you’d understand…’

‘Course I do.’ Gene bowed his head, brushing his lips distractedly over Sam’s warm skin. ‘I do, an’ so do you.’ He shrugged. ‘Guess you always will know, seeing as I made you that way.’

Sam stiffened slightly in his arms, and relaxed into a strange little laugh against his shoulder. ‘You’re so fucking full of yourself.’

‘So are you, Sammy-boy.’

His steps faltering, Sam drew his head back, studying Gene carefully, then smiled, nodded. ‘Fair enough, then.’

Gene nodded back, and drew Sam in again, arm tight around his waist.

Over their heads, the television flickered to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from the song ‘I See A Darkness’ by Bonnie “Prince” Billy, who also provides accompanying vocals on Johnny Cash’s cover, which is the version Nelson plays here.


End file.
